


Lullaby for a Stormy Night

by ArchangelUnmei



Series: Little Things [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Lullabies, M/M, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There will always be storms in life, both literal and figurative. But there's always someone there to help you through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby for a Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> Birthday present for Losthitsu, even if it is a week late. ;;; I'm so sorry!
> 
> This one is actually set before _All the Little Things_ ; the twins are about four in this one.
> 
> Inspired by the song _Lullaby for a Stormy Night_ by Vienna Teng, and the lovely FACE video for it that can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tDFsqYe-W0).

When Matthew and Alfred go down for their nap, Francis and Arthur begin to fight. Since the boys came to live with them, they've perfected the art of silent fighting, conducted mostly through glare and gesture and text message.

By the time the boys wake up, their fathers aren't speaking to each other at all. The evening is chilly, both figuratively and literally as the low-hanging clouds outside promise but never quite deliver rain. Matthew and Alfred know something is wrong; they tiptoe around the house all evening, and don't even protest when Francis and Arthur come in to tuck them into bed separately, rather than together as usual.

Both men can feel those two sad little stares penetrating their hearts, but Francis ends up settling down to sleep on the couch downstairs anyway.

Of course, as Murphy would have it, the moment he turns out the last light and begins to settle down, the lurking storm breaks; heavy clouds spilling drenching rain over the house and garden.

Francis sighs, curling up under the blankets (the quilt, handmade by Arthur, still smells like him and Francis buries his nose in it to breathe him in). He wishes there was a warm Englishman beside him to press his cold feet against. But alas, Arthur is in a snit, and Francis knows from experience that he is likely to stay mad for at least another two days. And it's such a stupid argument, Francis thinks, because they've had it a hundred times before. He is the _maitre d'hotel_ at a five star restaurant; it is his _job_ to be courteous and friendly and even a bit flirtatious to anyone who walks through his door, female and male alike.

Francis knows his flirting only makes Arthur angry because he is jealous, but it still stings that Arthur apparently doesn't trust him.

And so Francis is sleeping on the couch when he'd much rather be cuddled in bed with Arthur curled against his back.

He lays awake for a long time, listening to the rain pounding on the roof, thunder occasionally breaking the monotony with its own booming voice. He's just about to get up and get himself a cup of ~~Arthur's~~ tea when a very different sort of voice cuts through the noise of the storm.

"Papa," comes the wavering sound, and for a disorienting moment Francis can't tell through the wind and the rain if it's Matthew or Alfred who spoke.

But when he sits up and looks over the back of the couch, only Alfred is standing at the bottom of the steps, his rocket ship pajamas rumpled, hair mussed and face pale when the lightening flashes. As soon as he sees that Francis is awake, he runs around the couch to crawl up into his lap. Francis hugs him close, frowning a little when he feels Alfred trembling at every roll of thunder.

He pulls Alfred closer, tucking the boy's head against his shoulder and pulling ~~Arthur's~~ one of the quilts up to tuck around them both. Their own cozy little cocoon against the storm. "Alfred, mon chiot, what is wrong? Where is Mathieu?"

Alfred looks up at him, young face so open and earnest as his words spill out one over the other.

"Matt and I were scared of the storm so he crawled in bed with me and brought his blanket 'cause between the Sens and the Blue Jackets that's like eighty-jillion hockey sticks to beat the bad guys with but it was still raining really hard and then it started thundering more and Mattie was kinda crying but I _totally wasn't_ because I'm the hero so then I said we should crawl into bed with you and dad but when we got out of bed and went into your room only dad was in bed and Matt thought maybe you were lost in the storm somewhere but he was too scared to come downstairs with me to look for you because it's really dark so he stayed upstairs and _why aren't you in bed with dad like you're supposed to be?!_ "

Francis stares at him throughout his entire speech, jaw hanging slightly ajar. Alfred's seemingly boundless ability to speak without commas or indeed without _air_ has never ceased to amaze him. But then his words penetrate, and Francis frowns a little sadly, hugging him close. What can he possibly say to explain, when there isn't any explanation at all? How hard it is, Francis muses, to try and make a child understand when even adults have trouble comprehending.

Thunder cracks, seeming to shatter the sky almost directly over the house, and Alfred buries his face in Francis' chest and gives a high little shriek of fright. Francis furrows his brow in concern, setting thoughts of Arthur aside as he wraps the blanket more securely around Alfred and pets his back soothingly. After a minute and almost without conscious thought he begins to sing softly in French, an old lullaby his mother had used back when he and his sister were young.

" _Doucement, doucement, Doucement s'en va le jour..._ "

His singing voice isn't the best, a little too husky and flat to really be called 'good', but the rain hides the flat notes and it seems to be calming Alfred at least, one small hand appearing out of the quilt to curl in the neck of Francis' t-shirt.

" _La rainette dit, Sa chanson de nuit..._ "

He senses more than hears when Arthur comes down the stairs behind him, Matthew sniffling in his arms. Francis closes his eyes, still rubbing Alfred's back as he pictures them there; Arthur with his delightfully old-fashioned night shirt hanging to around his knees and his magnificent brows drawn down in a sleepy scowl, Matthew with his face smudged from sleep and tears and rubbing his dripping nose all over the collar of Arthur's shirt.

It makes Francis smile for the first time all evening, though he doesn't stop singing and doesn't open his eyes, not even when he feels the weight settle on the couch beside him, Matthew wiggling under the edge of the quilt to cling to his brother.

" _Doucement, doucement, À pas de velours..._ "

He does open his eyes then, looking over at Arthur sideways from under his lashes, trying to gauge the Englishman's true mood. Arthur isn't looking at him, instead his eyes are fixed on the lump of quilt with two toddlers underneath, sprawled across both their laps. Two boys, two laps, eight legs and forty toes and four sleepy-scared eyes and four not-sleepy-not-scared eyes and one mouth singing a French lullaby.

Arthur raises his eyes to meet Francis', one hand on Alfred's head and the other hovering an inch away from Francis' elbow.

Something passes between them then, something that later on neither one of them will be able to define. Something about the storm, the kids, something about forgiveness and love.

Their gazes are broken but that something isn't when Matthew stirs and raises the edge of the quilt, looking up at Arthur with a pleading, silent look. Francis is watching and he sees Arthur melt, watches him obligingly scoot under the blanket until all four of them are curled up together on the couch. One family versus the storm.

His heart swells when he feels Arthur lean his head against his shoulder, and turns to whisper the last of the lullaby into sweet-smelling bird's-nest hair.

" _Les oiseaux blottis, Se sont endormis. Bonne nuit._ "

Arthur huffs, but his hand finds Francis' and gives it a squeeze.

Outside the storm still rages, but it doesn't matter anymore.

The four of them sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Francis' pet name for Alfred, _chiot_ , is French for 'puppy'. He calls Matthew _chaton_ , which is French for 'kitten'.
> 
> Alfred is a Columbus Blue Jackets fan because I say so, okay? :P Largely because I'm from Ohio myself, so that's my hometown team. Matthew, of course, prefers the Ottawa Senators which I had to choose because that's the team my girlfriend's mother roots for _passionately_. It's a little frightening.
> 
> The lullaby that Francis sings is called _Doucement s'en va le jour_ , you can [listen here](http://www.mamalisa.com/mp3/douce.mp3), though the quality isn't the best. Translation credit goes to my Limey, she reads it as;
> 
> Gently, gently  
> Gently goes along the day  
> Gently, gently  
> On steps of velvet.
> 
> The tree-frog said  
> Her song of night  
> And the hare fled  
> Without a sound.
> 
> Gently, gently  
> Gently goes along the day  
> Gently, gently  
> On steps of velvet.
> 
> In the deepness of nests  
> The little birds snuggled  
> They have gone to sleep  
> Goodnight


End file.
